


Blood from a Stone

by Saetha



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: (how isn't that one already a tag), 2+1 - Freeform, Alcohol, Angst, Blood and Injury, Bobo's Oral Fixation, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, I also want 'less drama more fucking' to be my new tagline lmao, M/M, Smoking, The Bobo Del Rey Drama Hour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24295972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: “What are you doing here, John Henry?”“I’ve never liked being in another man’s debt.” Doc lifted the first aid kit that he was still holding.“There is no debt to be paid,” Bobo growled. “I don’t care for being another man’s…obligation.” He followed Doc’s gaze, down to the fingers of his hand as they were slowly reforming. “Neither do I appreciate being nothing more than an object to satisfy someone’s curiosity.”Doc cleared his throat, pointedly looking away and back up at Bobo’s face. "It was not my intention to pry”, he said carefully. “All humans are the same in that they do not want to go through pain alone. Nor should they have to.”“I am not human.”*2+1 one in which Bobo and Doc look after each other's wounds, learn a thing or two, and perhaps find something else along the way.
Relationships: Doc Holliday/Bobo Del Rey | Robert Svane
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Blood from a Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Oh no, the Hollirey bug has bitten me. Look, this ship might be tiny, but it's so much fun that you'll have to forgive me for writing at least a few fics for it.  
> Bonus points to everyone who finds the altered Black Sails quote :).
> 
> Porn is at the end, can be skipped if you so wish (as always).

_The devil's got nothing on me my friend  
All I want is to be left alone  
Tact from me is like blood from a stone  
(_ [ _x_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YHWJT7mo4I0) _)_

Getting shot was just the icing on an already shitty day.

Doc cursed as he made his way through the trailer park to the rickety piece of junk that he temporarily called his home. His bicep stung with every step that he was taking – not the all-encompassing pain of a truly threatening wound, but certainly still strong enough to be a serious distraction. He ignored the stares and sniggers of the revenants currently in residence, even as their nostrils were flaring when they caught the scent of his blood. One or two made as if to follow him, but the sound of their footsteps stopped shortly after, their leering replaced by an air of fear and respect in equal parts. 

Looking behind him, Doc saw an all too familiar shape sporting a coat that far too many animals had probably died for. Bobo’s eyes were following him, his gaze so intense that it felt like knives scraping over his skin. It tracked him all the way to his trailer, the feeling of being watched, of being _scrutinised_ , lessening only a little when he closed the door behind him.

He made a grab for the whiskey bottle before he could even shrug off his coat. The burning liquor dulled the edges of the pain just enough for him to divest himself of his coat and roll up his left sleeve, frowning all the way. Doc was just about to start rooting through the drawers for some first aid supplies when the door to his trailer opened, admitting one Bobo del Rey.

The man made the already small interior of the trailer appear even more cramped, and it was only in part because of the monstrous coat on his shoulders. There was something about him that immediately made you want to defend yourself, even as entirely without weapons as he appeared to be. Doc withstood the urge to rise from his seat in an unspoken challenge, but his fingers closed around the hilt of the knife he was always carrying on him. The only reaction from Bobo was a slight shadow of mirth tugging at the edges of his mouth. He dug around inside his coat before he produced a small first aid kit that he threw on the table in front of Doc.

Whatever Doc had expected – threats, violence, yet another broadcast of the Bobo Drama Hour – it wasn’t this. He looked at the innocent kit on the table and back to Bobo, who was still standing next to the closed door in the exact same manner as before and obviously expecting some kind of reply.

“A scuffle with the heir?” Bobo finally asked when Doc still hadn’t said anything. He nodded at the angry wound on Doc’s upper arm, where the bullet had passed clean through the muscle.

“No. In fact, I have your own to thank for this.” Doc made a vague gesture that encompassed Bobo, his own terrible housing, and the assorted revenant population outside.

Bobo frowned.

“As difficult as it might be to believe, I do not control every revenant currently resident in the Ghost River Triangle.” He raised his arm and seemed on the verge of taking a step towards Doc before he stopped. “And I did not give the order for _this_.”

“Well. They were demons all the same.” Doc would have shrugged if the motion hadn’t been slightly too painful.

“Mhm.” Bobo said nothing more in return, but evidently made a mental note. Doc sighed.

“Don’t you have business to look after? Someone to torture, money to extort…” He made a vague gesture with his healthy arm, hoping it would be obvious enough for Bobo to take the hint. The man made no effort to leave, however. He simply snorted, as if the notion that he would undertake such ventures was utterly ridiculous.

“I have some paperwork to be filed, yes. The tax system is rather more complicated than it was a hundred and thirty years ago.”

“Paperwork.” Doc’s incredulity at the reply must have shown on his face since the edges of Bobo’s mouth twitched ever so slightly. The image of Bobo sitting down to some paperwork was simply something that Doc’s mind refused to procure.

“In spite of what you seem to think, all my business is perfectly legal.” Bobo rolled his shoulders. He still made no move to exit the RV.

“Right.” When it became clear that Bobo wasn’t going to leave, Doc resolved to simply proceed as he had planned. The wound was now burning with insistent pain and the earlier he looked after it, the better. He didn’t know whether the witch’s ring would protect him against sepsis, but he wasn’t really inclined to test it, either.

He moved to undo the buttons of his vest, and then his shirt underneath. Removing them both completely with injuring himself further proved more of a challenge, although he succeeded in the end. Doc spent a moment to grieve the loss of yet another shirt – the blood and bullet holes would be impossible to remove. When he looked up again, he saw that Bobo’s gaze was following his every move, travelling over the lines of his body, albeit without a single motion himself. Doc looked up to lock eyes with him, demonstratively dropping his shirt to the ground as he did so.

“Are you just going to stand there and watch? I do not recall agreeing to act as an object for your amusement,” he said sharply.

“Would you like me to help you instead?” Bobo’s tone was utterly acerbic.

“Well, seeing as you have invited yourself into my space and presently refuse to leave, I think it would only be proper,” Doc countered. He didn’t even know why – he was just curious, really. Not that Bobo was likely to be concerned with what was proper and what wasn’t.

To his utter surprise, Bobo’s foot shot forward to pull an empty chair out from under the table. He dropped down into it without waiting for any further encouragement. Doc wished he would at least take his damn coat off, but at this point he wasn’t even sure whether the bloody thing wasn’t somehow half fused to Bobo’s shoulders.

His fingers were almost businesslike as he opened the first aid kit, as if he had done so countless times before. The unbidden image of Bobo patching up dozens of revenants _who couldn’t even die_ came to Doc’s mind.

“The bullet went straight through,” he said, watching as Bobo lifted his arm and turned it to get a better look at the wound. His touch was far more careful than Doc would have expected from the man, putting in actual effort to avoid causing him any more unnecessary pain.

“Lucky for you,” Bobo answered as he unwrapped some wipes that would presumably help keeping the wound clean and clear of infection.

“Much experience with bullet wounds yourself, then?” Doc said without thinking before wincing internally. Of course, Bobo had to have had experience with them. He was a _revenant_. Not for the first time, Doc wondered how Bobo had died the first time and what exactly he had done to deserve Wyatt’s wrath. As much as he tried, he couldn’t remember having met the man before his own untimely interlude at the bottom of the well.

Bobo only stared at him for a moment, almost unconsciously rolling his left shoulder slightly.

“More than enough,” he finally admitted, not willing to indulge any further information. The silence as he worked to clean and stitch the wound was only interrupted by his occasionally monosyllabic requests for Doc to hold something. He wordlessly moved the whiskey bottle closer to him before he began with the stitches, his fingers quick and sure with the task. Doc was sweating by the time the entry and exit wounds had been closed and it took him until Bobo had finished wrapping his arm to calm his ragged breathing.

“Done.” Bobo leaned back in his chair.

Doc looked down at his arm, the neatly wrapped bandage somehow so at odds with Bobo’s entire being. Only an hour ago he never would have thought that he would ever utter these words towards any revenant, much less Bobo del Rey, but here he was.

“Thank you.”

Bobo simply nodded and stood from his seat.

“Some of my men go a little…wild at the smell of blood,” he said. “See to it that you keep it clean and don’t rip the stitches. And…” his gaze travelled across Doc’s body one last time, “get rid of the shirt.” His coat made a soft sound as he opened the door to the RV and turned around to exit.

Doc could do nothing but stare after him.

*

The rumour had spread through the camp as quickly as wildfire. A raid gone wrong, a group of revenants unhappy with Bobo’s leadership had laid a trap. Fighting had ensued, revenants had been dragged over the line by human allies and staked out there. Bobo had stood with his men, so they said, had attempted to shield them from the worst until their attackers were injured enough that they wouldn’t be able to move for the foreseeable future. Some even whispered that he had sent them off on the bed of a truck to be dumped in front of the Homestead so that the Earp heir could take care of them.

Whatever the truth was, the band of revenants returning to the trailer park made a sorry picture. Doc watched as they stumbled through the entrance, some of them unable to walk. Bobo came last, barking a few commands and jerking his chin in the direction of the largest of the trailers that served as the revenant equivalent of a community centre. It had to be sheer will that was keeping upright at this point; his entire right side was a bleeding crater and Doc was fairly sure that at least a few fingers were missing, as if he had stood too close to an exploding grenade.

Doc didn’t know what it was that compelled him to grab the remnants of the first aid kit that Bobo had left on his previous visit and head out to find the man himself. Curiosity perhaps, or a strange sense of misplaced gratitude, the idea that few people deserved to suffer needlessly (although he would always make an exception for the witch).

He found Bobo in a secluded spot at the very back of the trailer park, with no other revenants daring to come close. Bobo was reclining in a chair in the shadow of a large tree, his coat thrown over a nearby table. From afar he looked almost peaceful with his eyes closed, an unmarked bottle in his hand and a cigarette dangling from his mouth, until you could see the beads of sweat running down his temple. His teeth were clenched so tightly that it was a miracle he hadn’t bitten his smoke in two yet. Its smell was acrid, as cheap a tobacco as could be bought. Doc wrinkled his nose.

“You should leave,” Bobo said, without opening his eyes. His voice sounded rough, as if he had been dragged across the gravel of the driveway.

“Does it hurt?” Doc nodded at his destroyed arm, although Bobo’s eyes remained closed. If he was honest, had never really considered what being able to heal yourself of any and all wounds actually meant. And how it couldn’t be the most comfortable of feelings.

Bobo finally opened his eyes. Flecks of red were swimming in their whites and all he could spare for Doc was a sneer.

“Leave,” he said again. Instead of the expected growl, however, there was a note of exhaustion lacing his voice.

“How long does it usually take?” Doc gestured at the wound again. “To heal, I mean.”

Bobo sighed, evidently too exhausted to fight him and insist on his desire to be left alone.

“It depends,” was the reluctant answer. “Two hours for this one, perhaps three.” He took a sip from his bottle. Doc wondered just how much experience Bobo’d had in the matter to be able to make such a precise estimation.

“Do this often, then?” He pulled a chair from the shadow of the closest RV and eyed it distrustfully before sitting down, far enough away from Bobo so as not to be intruding too much. To his surprise, the rickety construction actually held his weight.

Bobo snorted. He took a deep drag of his cigarette before knocking the ash loose over the side. For the first time since Doc had invited himself so carelessly into this space he truly looked at him.

“What are you doing here, _John Henry_?”

“I’ve never liked being in another man’s debt.” Doc lifted his hand that was still holding the first aid kit.

“There is no debt to be paid,” Bobo growled. “I don’t care for being another man’s… _obligation_.” He followed Doc’s gaze, down to the fingers of his hand as they were slowly reforming. “Neither do I appreciate being nothing more than an object to satisfy someone’s curiosity.”

Doc cleared his throat, pointedly looking away and back up at Bobo’s face.

“It was not my intention to pry”, he said carefully. “All humans are the same in that they do not want to go through pain alone. Nor should you have to.”

“I am not human.” And for just a second, Bobo’s control deliberately loosened, his eyes smouldering and red. If Doc had to bet, he’d say that the mark on his back was heating up as well. He brought himself back under control in the space of a thought, but still seemed so tightly wound that he was practically thrumming.

“And yet, you once were.” Doc shrugged. “I can leave, if that is truly what you want.”

Bobo opened his mouth to reply but flinched as a spasm travelled up through his arm. His entire body went rigid and he closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. A growl loosened somewhere deep in his throat, softened only by more alcohol.

“Nerves reconnecting,” he said, by way of an explanation.

“Is there….” Doc swallowed, knowing that the question would move him to more precarious ground. But Bobo wasn’t the type who would ever volunteer any information himself. What must a man have gone through that even the thought of someone wanting to provide companionship in times of hurt was so alien to him? “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No.” Bobo took another swig from the bottle, frowning. He let out a breath as his hand twitched again. “Tell me, Doc. Why did you come here? To the trailer park? Surely an immortal gunslinger can find better haunts than setting up shop in the midst of revenants. We’re not an especially forgiving sort.”

Doc hesitated before he replied, weighing up just how many of his inner workings he was willing to lay bare.

“Because you had information on the witch. And because you are, after all, the only ones left from _my_ time.” Because the stink of alcohol and cheap cigarettes was ingrained so deeply into his bones at this point that it was practically _home_ ; because being amongst demons, most of who wanted to kill him, was still more familiar than any of the so-called wonders of this modern world. Because the soul of a killer was one that was as familiar to him as breathing.

“Aside from the witch, you mean.” The barest hint of a smirk curled up the edges of Bobo’s lips.

“Aside from the witch,” Doc acknowledged. Bobo looked at him, evidently expecting him to go on.

“I would, however, have expected your revenants to be better at poker than they are.” Doc raised his eyebrows. “If I was an honest sort of man, I would have almost felt bad about how easy it was to relieve them of their money.”

“Hell isn’t always kind to someone’s mental facilities. And those who would try and beat you at a poker game perhaps weren’t the brightest to begin with.” Something changed on Bobo’s face as he said the words, but he didn’t elaborate further, at least not without prompting.

“What is it like? Hell?” It was thin ice that Doc was moving on again, and for a moment he thought he had gone too far. But it was a strange atmosphere that they were caught in now; not quite as if they were on friendly grounds, no, but a softer sort of familiarity that had taken hold in their bones, as Doc kept spinning words that would distract a revenant from the pain of restoring half of his body.

Bobo remained silent for a moment, mulling the question over in his mind. Another round of spasms ran through up his arm before he replied.

“It devours. It isn’t the fire, or the pain, that ultimately drives most men mad, although there is plenty of it, and plenty break from it. This,” he wriggled his reforming fingers, his face contorting in agony as he did so, “is only a pale shadow.”

He shifted slightly, raising his head. The gaze from his eyes caught Doc’s before he continued.

“No, it’s not the pain. It is the knowledge that no one _cares_. The absolute surety that everyone thinks that you _deserve_ it. They are so convinced you are a monster that in the end, you cannot help but become one. Not even the best of men could emerge unscathed.” There was something raw in his words, wrenched straight from the centre of his chest.

“But surely, some deserve it?” Whatever it was that had risen up between them in these last few seconds, Doc’s words broke the spell. Bobo looked away.

“Perhaps.” Bobo took another drag from the cigarette in his hand and shrugged with one shoulder. He frowned at the end between his fingers before he stubbed it out on the chair’s armrest. “But many do not. Who are we to judge? And Wyatt…” He sneered, his voice turning ugly. “He never cared who he shot, as long as he thought that some kind of justice was being served.”

Oh yes, Doc was only too well acquainted with Wyatt’s particular brand of _justice_. And there was no better evidence for it than knowing that Wyatt had damned at least a good twenty men to hell in the full knowledge that they would be cursed forever. And he had seen many of them – some were barely more than teenagers.

“You knew him then? Wyatt?” Beyond being killed by him, it appeared.

“Yes. He and I were…acquainted.” There was a particular way in which Wyatt’s name rolled across Bobo’s lips, the slight pause in his words, a look in his eyes that Doc was only too familiar with. The thing that puzzled him the most was that he couldn’t remember Bobo as he must have been; and if Bobo had fucked Wyatt, he _should_ have known him, unless Wyatt had met him after Doc was thrown to the bottom of the well.

“Mhm.” Doc watched as the last of Bobo’s fingers slowly began to knit itself together. His arm and side were still to irregular, too wrongly proportioned to be healed with bone visible were it shouldn’t be, but at least he seemed to be in the possession of all of his extremities again. Doc knew better than to keep asking him after his past and how Bobo had wound up finding death at the end of Wyatt Earp’s gun. It didn’t seem a subject that would be particularly welcome.

“Tell me about the past,” he said, lighting a cigarillo of his own. Bobo lifted his eyebrows, evidently not having expected the question. Doc flashed a smile in his direction. “I was at the bottom of a well for over a hundred years. Tell me what I’ve missed.”

It was a pathetically transparent attempt to change the topic and keep Bobo talking, but the demon just threw his head back and chuckled.

“Now _that_ is a topic to fill hundreds of hours,” he admitted. And yet, he talked. For two hours, he talked about the joys and pains of humanity’s past, painting an image of all the times that Doc had missed, relaxing into the words and clinging on to them as his body continued to heal itself. He never let his guard down, not truly; but a certain ease entered his words, something other than the snarling demon so filled with vengeance and wrath that it seemed to escape out of his every pore. It was as fascinating as it was intoxicating to Doc and he caught himself thinking that Bobo must have been an educated man once upon a time.

He would have liked to have met him.

Bobo’s entire pose shifted when his body had finished healing itself. He lifted his arm and wriggled his fingers experimentally, regarding his torn shirtsleeve with a frown. He looked exhausted in a way that he hadn’t before, the lines in his face grey and deep and a dull sheen to his eyes.

Doc was the first to rise from his seat. He closed the distance between himself and Bobo with two quick steps, reaching out slowly, waiting for the man to withdraw. The tips of his fingers ran across the new skin, so warm and human as if it had never been damaged. As if it didn’t belong to a demon.

Bobo flinched, but not enough to remove his arm from Doc’s touch, before he froze completely. It left Doc to wonder how long it had been since someone had touched Bobo without any malice or second thought, simply out of the desire to feel. The hairs on his arm were standing up and Bobo’s gaze was drawn intently to them.

“It is a marvel,” Doc said, letting just an ounce of reverence creep into his voice. “You should take better care.”

He turned and left before he could hear Bobo’s answer.

*

Drinking in the same place that Bobo and some of his revenants frequented had been a bad idea. Drinking there, playing cards with an unknown group of men who had come over from the next town and then making said men lose a fortune had been an even worse idea. Doing so and then insulting the men he had been playing with, however, had just been plain stupid. Usually, Doc was fairly proficient in gauging the risk associated with his activities. Something about the past few days, however, seemed to have distracted his senses enough that he didn’t see the bottle coming from behind until it hit him over the back of his head, causing his hat to fall off.

It took exactly three seconds until the situation had deteriorated into a full-blown bar fight. Doc was loath to use his pistols in such tight spaces with so many humans around (more acceptable a hundred and thirty years ago but now – not so much), but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t make use of whatever else offered itself as a weapon around him.

The next few minutes passed like a blur. Doc vaguely recalled holding a knife in one hand and the broken leg of a bar stool in the other, doling out hits wherever it seemed prudent. He also recalled trying to shovel as much of his hard-won money into his pockets as possible and the distinct feeling of breaking more than one bone with a few well-placed hits. What he couldn’t recall, however, was how and when Bobo had turned up in the establishment. Or how they had both ended up in a corner, with Bobo towering in front of Doc, a knife in his hand that definitely wasn’t _his_ , whilst Doc was busy pulling another blade out of the flesh of his arm. The pain cut through his drunken haze with sharp precision, and all of a sudden he realised that several revenants had now joined in in earnest, turning the brawl into an actually dangerous fight.

“Boys!” Bobo yelled. He nodded at Doc to take cover behind the bar. The barman had left long ago, presumably sneaking out the back to call the police. Doc shrugged and helped himself to some of the better bottles of whiskey. He was never one to shirk an opportunity when it offered itself, after all.

Nobody seemed to have heard Bobo’s call.

“BOYS!” This time it wasn’t the shout of a man, but the deep growl of a demon, accompanied by every single metallic piece in the room rocking in its place. It certainly seemed to have the desired effect, judging from the sudden silence.

“Enough.” Bobo marched bodily through the astonished crowd, made up of revenants and humans alike. There was the sound of a siren approaching rapidly outside. “Remember, more bodies only means more trouble, of the sort we cannot allow ourselves to have at the moment.”

He nodded at two of his men as he walked past them before leaving. Doc was quick to note that not every revenant left the place with him, but enough did that the spirit of the fight was gone. He thought it safer to sneak out of the back door and on to the trailer park himself.

In an almost absurd repetition of the scene several weeks ago, Bobo once again invited himself into Doc’s trailer not long after he had taken off his hat, vest, and gun belt and begun cataloguing his injuries. The knife wound in his arm was by far the worst, complemented by a set of bruises and mostly superficial scrapes on the rest of his body. This time he actually had a first aid kit at the ready, a fact that hadn’t escaped Bobo by the small smirk on his lips.

“Need help?” he asked, pushing into Doc’s space.

Doc just sighed, looking down at his arm. At least the knife had missed any actually life-threatening spots.

“Are you looking to spare your revenants the smell of my blood again?” he asked, his eyebrows rising. Bobo snorted.

“Perhaps,” he just said. His fingers were as quick and deft as the previous time as he helped to take care of the wound, although they seemed to linger on Doc’s skin just a breath longer than before. He finished wrapping the bandage around his arm and for a moment, neither of them moved, transfixed by something they couldn’t name. Bobo was the first to break the spell, and as he did, Doc noticed a darker patch on his chest.

“Bobo.” There was no particular force behind his name, but Bobo stopped in his motion nonetheless. Doc nodded at his chest.

“You are hurt.” It wasn’t a question. Bobo snorted slightly, entirely humourless.

“It’s unimportant,” he said, shrugging his coat back on from where he had thrown it across the kitchen hob earlier. He was unable to hide a slight wince as he did so. “It will heal.”

“Even so…” Doc rose from his seat and walked towards him, one hand outstretched as if to touch him.

“Are you going to keep me from leaving?” Bobo asked, definite amusement in his voice now.

“No. But you should let me see.” Doc remained where he was, meeting Bobo’s gaze without wavering.

“If you wanted me to take my shirt off, you should’ve just asked.” There was an edge to Bobo’s amusement now that certainly hadn’t been there before. A challenge thrown in Doc’s direction that he really should have expected.

“Take it off then.” Doc had never been known to be one to skirt around an issue. Bobo’s eyebrows rose in response, but after a moment of hesitation and much to Doc’s surprise, he pulled his shirt over his head, wincing as the fabric rubbed at the wound on his chest. It was a circle of deep, jagged cuts, as if someone had rammed a broken bottle into his ribs. Which, now that Doc thought about it, was likely exactly what had happened.

He reached out behind him to grab hold of the first aid kit, but Bobo caught his hand before he could complete the motion.

“There’s no need,” he said. “It’ll heal within the hour.”

Doc sighed. This wasn’t an argument he was going to win, since all the reasons he could possibly give – _but you’re still in pain, the fact that it’ll heal doesn’t mean you shouldn’t care for them, looking after your wounds is meant to provide more than physical comfort_ – would fall on deaf ears. Instead of trying to wrest free from Bobo’s grip he took another step towards him. With a slow, measured motion he put his other palm on Bobo’s chest, fingers splayed across his ribs.

Bobo’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move away. His grip around Doc’s wrist tightened ever so slightly, just at the edge of being painful. Doc moved his hand, pressing into the dips of Bobo’s skin, feeling the muscle and bone underneath. He purposely touched the edges of Bobo’s wound, hearing him hiss in response. Instead of drawing away, however, Bobo arched into the touch ever so slightly. He finally loosened his grip around Doc’s wrist, bringing his hand up to his mouth. Doc had never been one to find another man’s lips on his fingers particularly arousing, but there was something about Bobo’s mouth and the way he was absolutely shameless in the use of his tongue that made his chest tighten and heat pool in his groin.

Doc moved closer, his fingers travelling upwards before curling around Bobo’s neck and pulling him closer. There was little softness in the kiss, but an almost wild sort of desperation and _hunger_ that surprised them both. Bobo made an unintelligible noise deep inside his throat as his fingers finally began finding their way onto Doc’s skin. They snaked their way under his shirt, impatient in exploring the many ridges and scars.

“You’re wearing too much,” Bobo growled, and Doc was inclined to agree. He was quick to dispose of his shirt and undershirt and had no qualms about putting his hands on Bobo’s belt next. His cock was already straining against the thin fabric of his jeans and Doc couldn’t help but put his palm on the growing bulge, rubbing it with a wicked grin.

“Eager, are we?”

Red flickered through Bobo’s eyes at the words and he pulled him close again.

“Fuck you, Holliday” he hissed out through clenched teeth.

“I was _hoping_ that you would, yes.” Doc finally took mercy on him and busied himself with Bobo’s belt buckle. It didn’t take long to open and undo the zipper, and Bobo stepped out of his boots and pants only seconds later, barely enough time for Doc to get rid of the remainder of his own clothes. Bobo didn’t even give him enough time for a good look before he touched him again, fingers digging into Doc’s flesh and mapping out every single one of the muscles on his chest and back. Doc found himself leaning in for another kiss as he traced the ridges of the mark on Bobo’s back, standing out hot and prominent on his skin. Bobo arched into the touch, growling in equal parts pain and pleasure, and Doc made a mental note that there was certainly more to discover here. His hands moved back to Bobo’s chest again, his thumb finding a grove in his shoulder, the only scar on his otherwise unblemished revenant skin.

Bobo paused their kiss, his entire body momentarily frozen.

“Not there,” he said, his voice brokering no further argument. Doc obediently moved away – a man’s voice would always tell you which lines you could cross and which you couldn’t. This was certainly the latter kind. Instead, he dug his fingers into Bobo’s back again, pulling him backwards towards the small bed at the end of his trailer. Bobo came willingly, never pausing in his ministrations to Doc’s body. The back of Doc’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he would’ve fallen over had Bobo not grabbed him by his hips and lifted him up. His fingers were digging into Doc’s flesh just _right_ and he let out a breathless laugh as he wrapped his legs around Bobo.

He reached out blindly until he found the bottle of lube in his nightstand drawer. Bobo deposited him on the bed and took it from him in one fluid motion, never once stopping in his open appreciation of Doc’s body. He bent down to kiss him again, his fingers cupping Doc’s chin before he moved to sit upright, lazily tracing a line from his mouth all the way to Doc’s groin, before taking his cock in hand.

The callouses on his palm were rough against Doc’s sensitive skin, a feeling that was amplified when he began moving his grip.

Doc arched upwards, his legs tightening around Bobo’s waist as the throbbing under Bobo’s hands became almost too much to bear. Bobo bent down until there was barely enough space between them for him to continue. His teeth dug into the soft flesh of Doc’s nipple and Doc reached up without thinking, one hand curled into Bobo’s hair as he pulled at it, the other cupped around ass.

“Faster,” Doc hissed, although most of the sound was lost somewhere between his harsh pants and the sweaty tufts of Bobo’s hair sticking to his mouth. Bobo’s only answer was to growl and bite down harder, although his rhythm changed almost imperceptibly. If he hadn’t been stuck at the bottom of a well without company for more than a century, Doc would have almost been embarrassed with how little it took to make him come. As it was, all he could do was to close his eyes as he did so, splattering all over Bobo’s hands and both their chests, as close as they were.

Bobo looked up at him and smirked. There was something wicked glinting in his eyes as he slowly moved downwards, nipping at Doc’s skin as he still tried to work through the aftereffects of his orgasm. The sight of Bobo shamelessly licking first at the trail of blood his wound had left on Doc’s skin, and then at the sticky puddle on Doc’s chest was almost enough to make him hard again and he reached out run his fingers through Bobo’s hair. Tease that he was, however, Bobo drew himself back up to his knees again instead of sucking his cock, reaching out for the lube that he had carelessly dropped between the covers earlier. Doc let out a satisfied sigh, wriggling into a slightly more comfortable position before placing his hands on Bobo’s waist.

“Satisfied already?” There it was again, that smirk on Bobo’s face, making Doc want to pull him down and kiss him again.

“Don’t flatter yourself too much.” Doc ran his fingers down Bobo’s ass and the back of his thigh. “If you want to see _real_ satisfaction, I suggest you get on with it and _fuck me_.” Oh, and Bobo obviously enjoyed it when those filthy words left Doc’s lips.

“So impatient,” he murmured as he slicked himself up, making sure to move slowly enough to give Doc a good eyeful of what was coming. Doc rolled his eyes, but even he couldn’t deny that the view was certainly _something_.

“Less drama, more fucking,” he said, delighting in the dirty glimmer that ran through Bobo’s eyes. He didn’t know whether Bobo had always been this experienced, or whether there was something between them that just _clicked_ , but somehow Bobo seemed to have an almost uncanny knack for finding out how much roughness Doc actually enjoyed. He worked him open slowly at first, but with enough steady insistence that it sent little jolts of pleasure through Doc’s body.

When Bobo finally lowered himself into him, Doc could barely hold back a sigh of appreciation, his fingers clenching into the skin of Bobo’s waist to pull him down faster. Despite finding his rhythm, Bobo’s flesh seemed to mould himself under his hands, his entire body becoming supple and liquid under his touch. Bobo’s palms were digging into the bedding besides Doc’s head as he bent down to kiss him again. The bed was groaning under their combined weight as he fucked into him faster and faster, his forehead pressed against Doc’s shoulder.

Doc’s fingers dug into the mark on Bobo’s back, relishing the burning heat that singed his fingertips. The pain from it mingled with the absolute pleasure from Bobo’s cock inside him, driving him just the right kind of insane. Bobo came with a soft groan that was muffled in Doc’s skin, a shudder running down the length of his body.

For a moment neither of them moved. Bobo was breathing deeply, face still hidden in the crook of Doc’s neck. Doc felt the familiar tiredness wash over him, as always after a good fuck; he wasn’t even thinking when he ran his fingers down Bobo’s spine, relishing the feeling of the sweat-slicked skin under his fingertips. 

It was Bobo who moved first, just as Doc began to drift off. He shifted, an amusement entering his expression as he looked down at him.

“I am nor sure whether I should feel honoured or insulted,” Bobo said.

“Rest assured, if I was going to insult you, I would do so in a much less subtle manner,” Doc told him with a yawn. In lieu of sleeping, he made a grab for the cigarillos on his nightstand, lighting one. Bobo snorted in reply. He stretched, and Doc was unabashed in the way he appreciated the pools of gold the setting sun was painting on Bobo’s skin. The wound on his chest had almost stopped bleeding already. Bobo didn’t move away when Doc reached out to touch it again, rubbing at the dried flecks of blood and cum.

“Some would call this a miracle, rather than a curse,” Doc murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

“Don’t they always say that miracles are divine?” Bobo sneered, his eyes flashing red as the memory of hellfire flickered through it. “Believe me, there is nothing _divine_ about any of this.” He sat upright at the edge of the bed and began pulling on his pants. The light of the setting sun made the ridges around the mark of his back stand out in stark contrast and Doc longed to touch him again. There was something about Bobo that made him want to feel his skin over and over, made him want to scratch his name on his back in bloody groves and watch it disappear like sand in the waves.

“And yet, you are here, and you are almost whole again.” These were words that Doc shouldn’t be saying; words that belonged between lovers, not between whatever they were. Bobo stilled in his movements, not looking at him.

“Until the next bullet comes,” he said at last, running his hand through his hair in a vain attempt to bring some order into the mess on his head. “And trust me, there is _always_ another bullet.”

“…and always another Earp. I know. Aren’t you tired of fighting?” Doc turned to lie on his side. Another man would likely have died for this question. But he remembered; remembered the utter exhaustion in Bobo’s face when pain had stripped him off his usual façade. He remembered the way he had stood in front of him, having caught half a broken bottle with his chest.

He remembered the way he had gone perfectly still when he was faced with a touch stemming entirely from _kindness_. 

“Haven’t you heard?” Bobo did turn around then, as he continued to get dressed. His smile was entirely mirthless. “I am the monster that people warn their children of. The bogeyman that comes at night to steal what they hold dear. I am the demon from hell that has come to _terrorise_ them. Even if _I_ didn’t want to fight, they always will. And I will do whatever is necessary to escape this hell.”

He fastened the belt and shrugged on his shirt, still stained with his blood, a stark remainder of the violence he had been caught in and made himself king of.

“You should leave here when the witch is dead, John Henry,” he said, grabbing his coat. He turned around one last time in the open door, his silhouette set aflame by the fire of the setting sun.

“Or you’ll end up like us.”


End file.
